


I Hope It's Somewhere Good

by OctarineSparks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, S9 spoliers, sadfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-16
Updated: 2014-09-16
Packaged: 2018-02-17 16:39:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2316326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OctarineSparks/pseuds/OctarineSparks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wonders if he is worth the price it cost to save him, and if he has even been saved at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope It's Somewhere Good

There was a shining scar on Dean's forearm. Pale pink, like an old burn, seared into his flesh forever. Now and then he would run his hand across it, working his palm against the mark as though it still pained him. It itched sometimes, late at night. It gnawed at him from beneath his skin, and he wanted to claw at the flesh, dig his nails in and shred the lingering darkness within. Though the Mark itself was gone now, the memory of it ate away at him, reminding him of all the terrible things he had done, and of all that had been lost. 

He sat now at his usual table in the bunker, a half empty bottle of Jack next to him, his shirt rolled up past his elbow. In the glow of his desk lamp, he turned his arm this way and that, watching the way the light bounced and gleamed against the stretched, shiny skin. The taint of the Mark would be in him always, and he would never be able to shake it off. 

As he lay in bed at night, the tormented screams of all those he had slaughtered ringing in his ears, he didn't believe he deserved to be free of it anyway. 

Don't you think you deserve to be saved?

He grit his teeth in anger and roughly pulled his sleeve back to his wrist, hiding the scar once more. Before him lay a book, the pages ancient and yellowed, displaying a faded diagram of a feather. He had been staring at it for hours, taking nothing in. 

The anger surged within him once more, and in one swift move he snatched the book up and hurled it at the wall. It collided with a shelf and tumbled with a fluttering of pages to the cold floor, scattering a few loose leaves as it went. 

He wanted to shout. He wanted to rage and scream and tear this god forsaken place apart. He wanted to destroy everything, raze it to the ground and run away to start again. He wanted to leave it all behind. 

Sometimes he missed the Mark terribly. Everything had been so much simpler without his conscience holding him back. The urge to demolish, to fuck and to consume, had been almost pure in its intent. Unrelenting, and unquestioned. He took what he wanted, and felt no remorse for those who got in his way. His soul, such as it had been back then, never troubled him at all. 

He closed his eyes and buried his head in his hands. God, he was so damn tired, so exhausted his vision blurred and his legs shook beneath him, but he was too afraid of what he might see if he gave in. Too scared to hear those screams again, to be forced to face what he had done, over and over again in his nightmares. He just wanted it all to end. 

He heard a sound on the edge of his mind, like footsteps. He didn't know if they came from his head or from reality, but still, he looked up and to the doorway. His brother's large frame appeared, his face haggard and his shoulders slumped. Dean knew he wasn't sleeping well either. Some of the terrible memories in Dean's head were shared, after all. 

Sam glanced at his brother with softness in his eyes, with a reasoned attempt at sympathy and understanding. But Dean felt cut off from it all, a separate being now, far beyond the reach of whatever condolence and support Sam had to offer. Sam crossed the room ad gently stooped down to gather the thrown volume from the floor. He shut the book and glanced at the cover, a sadness creeping into his eyes that Dean had seen far too many times in his life. Then Sam carefully placed the book back where it belonged on the shelf and crossed the room to sit next to Dean. 

Neither brother spoke. Dean had run out of apologies a long time ago, and he wasn't foolish enough to try excuses. Platitudes and promises from Sam had all fallen on deaf ears, and Dean could see just how tired he was from constantly trying to fix that which couldn't be mended. The silence was like a new resident at the bunker now, filling every corner and infesting every shadow, and they both knew that it would be a long time before it moved on. 

Sam's eyes were fixed on Dean, but he in turn was staring down at the table top, his elbows propped on the wood and his fingers clasped together as if in prayer. Sam thought it was almost sick, an unconscious gesture that his brother wasn't even aware he was making. 

The silence pressed upon Dean like a choking shroud, screaming in his ears, suffocating him right down to his very soul. His mouth felt dry, his throat stuck together, and he was desperate to talk to his brother but he was afraid he had forgotten how. 

He felt unworthy to even be here. The price they had both paid to rid him of the Mark was more than he was worth. He wanted to take it all back. He wanted to beg, to plead, to bargain, to do anything he could to get back what they had lost. He felt numb, all the time, as though some vital part of him had been scooped out and thrown away. He ached, right down to his bones. His eyes were dry from crying, his voice hoarse from shouting. He was lost. He needed answers, but he knew there were none. 

He forced himself to look over at Sam. Sam, his little brother, his anchor to sanity, the one who had refused to back down until they had freed Dean of the burden he had so willingly, so stupidly, taken. Sam was always there, at the end of all things. Sometimes Dean looked at Sam and was amazed. There were times when he truly believed that Sam could fix anything. But he couldn't fix this. Sam didn't even know where to begin, there simply wasn't enough information, and if there was it wasn't for the likes of them. But Sam, dear, precious, brilliant Sam, could maybe offer some comfort to Dean's broken and troubled soul. 

He blinked, new tears forming in his eyes as his brother looked back at him with nothing in his own eyes but forgiveness and love. It was almost more than Dean could stand. But he craved comfort, he needed something. And he hadn't been looking through that dusty old book for days for just a distraction. He was looking for solace, the smallest glimmer of hope, but the book had offered him none. Sam, however, would know. 

Sam always did. 

He cleared his throat, choking down the lump there as tears began to fall, running in rivulets down his cheeks and dripping from his chin and onto the table. 

"Sam?" he whispered, his voice and his eyes pleading now. 

"Yeah Dean?" Sam replied, leaning forward a little in his chair, clearly surprised but pleased that at last his brother was speaking at last. 

Dean took a deep breath as closed his eyes. Hope, he thought. Please, Sammy, give me some good news. Just this once, please, give me something, because I am drowning here. 

He opened his eyes, and saw Sam looking back at him, his eyes wide, a small, sad little smile tugging at corners of his lips. Dean almost hated to see it. He knew how badly his brother wanted to help him, and he was terrified of the disappointment he might see if it transpired that he could not. But he had to ask. He had to know. He couldn't go on like this. He ran a hand over the side of his face, unsurprised when it came away wet, and swallowed hard. He looked at Sam, his eyes shining with an unspoken request for the help he knew he didn't truly deserve, and he spoke. 

"Where do angels go when they die?" Dean asked.

**Author's Note:**

> .... And now the title makes sense. XD


End file.
